


Imagine Dean getting turned on by you speaking Latin during sex

by winchestersinthedrift (vaneharriet)



Series: Het SPN Oneshots [2]
Category: Supernatural
Genre: Explicit Sexual Content, F/M, Latin, Sexual Tension
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-02-15
Updated: 2015-02-15
Packaged: 2018-03-13 00:48:37
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,954
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3361616
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/vaneharriet/pseuds/winchestersinthedrift
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
      <p>Written in response to this prompt: http://dirtysupernaturalimagines.tumblr.com/post/98507660532 and originally posted on dirtysupernaturalimagines.tumblr.com.</p><p>Send me your requests/prompts on my tumblr @winchestersinthedrift!</p>
    </blockquote>





	Imagine Dean getting turned on by you speaking Latin during sex

**Author's Note:**

> Written in response to this prompt: http://dirtysupernaturalimagines.tumblr.com/post/98507660532 and originally posted on dirtysupernaturalimagines.tumblr.com.
> 
> Send me your requests/prompts on my tumblr @winchestersinthedrift!

‘Listen, Dean, all I’m saying is that it’s not one of the things you can just bullshit your way through, OK? A spell is phrased a particular way for a reason, and one word wrong is just as bad as –‘

‘The fuck you think I don’t know that??’ Dean snapped back angrily, taking his beer and stomping off, though in a hotel room this small all that really meant was leaving the bartop where your take-out was spread out and flopping down on the far bed. ‘Sam, I said I’d get it. I don’t need my damn hand held.’

Sam crossed his arms and glared across the room. 

‘Well get this, Dean, if we die next time because you forget how to pronounce _aedific_ —‘  
'We can go over it later, after the game,' you said, lightly, looking hard at Sam from the stool where you were perched, eating the last spring rolls. He caught your eye and relaxed a little, settling back into his chair. You were so much alike, you and Sam, and you knew that he trusted you to make sure it happened, to be as concerned about the issue as he was. After all, you knew Latin even better than Sam, though, you had to admit dryly to yourself, he had a far better working knowledge of it. You'd been a doctoral student in classics when the boys had showed up in your office, asking for a consult on an obscure fragment of medieval Latin. You'd spotted it for a forgery at once, but before they'd left the office a shifter had shown up and broken Dean's wrist, and — well, the rest was history, recent history at least. You hadn’t wanted to stay in academia, anyway, and had no family close enough to raise any kind of fuss.

You’d been with them for a month now, and already it had become clear that your best contribution to the team might be your ability to calm nerves when things got heated between Dean and Sam. You were enough like Sam that he felt he could leave things with you and know they’d be done the way he wanted, meticulously and with a scholar’s eye; and you and Dean were the kinds of opposites that smoulder like sparks in damp leaves, the attraction low level and easy but enough to keep a grin and a teasing fake-out punch just a second or two away.

Nothing had grown out of the tension, yet, just long glances and off-colour jokes laughed about a little too loudly. Once you had been watching tv on the fold-out couch and he’d come out of the bathroom in the middle of Diehard 2 in just a towel and you’d thought for about three seconds that he was going to drop it and come over — he had just _looked_ at you and you’d held his gaze, blushing right up to the roots of your hair but stubborn — but then the phone had rang and it was Sam telling them that they needed to be two states over by 8 the next morning, so that had been that.

——-

'Dean,' you said now, nudging him with your foot, 'c'mon, we gotta go over the Latin.' Sam had been gone for a few hours now, meeting with a few of the local historians to gather the kind of cemetery knowledge that never seemed to make it into books. The game had just ended and Dean was in a bad mood. His team had lost, and he was lying flopped back from the edge of the bed, head hidden under a pillow. 'Dean, you're not sleeping, don't be an idiot. Let's just run over this and then you can sleep this epic sports tragedy off.' 

He grunted and rolled over with his back to you, bringing the pillow with him round his ears. You rolled your eyes and sat for a moment looking silently at his back. He was wearing an old tshirt and jeans; his undressing for the night usually consisted of taking out his belt and ditching his outer shirt. One sleeve of the tshirt had been torn off — for an impromptu bandage, no doubt, you thought — and the hair under his arm stuck out a little, wiry and blonde. Without the belt his jeans had slipped down and exposed just the top of his ass, two crooked dimples pressed into the bands of muscle around his core. You’d guessed he went commando, but seeing so still kicked your gut with heat.

'Dean,' you said again, 'C'mon, it's important.' 

'I know it is, Y/N,' he said, grudging but not angry, rolling over onto his back and staring at the ceiling. He had flung his arms above his head, biceps corded with muscle and the veins in his forearms standing out a little under the skin. You tried not to stare at where his jeans were gaping open a little, loose under his naval, tried to tear your mind away from the gripping urge to straddle him as he lay there. 

'OK, well, should we just run through it a few times?' The Latin in question was a modification of the standard exorcism ritual that one of Sam's hunter contacts in southern Greece had recently sent him. There were a few strange words, but you thought Dean's struggle with recalling it in moments of danger probably had nothing to do with his memory and everything to do with long-engrained habit. 'You recited it the old way for more than ten years, Dean,' you said, again. You'd told him this the day before but he'd shrugged it off and changed the subject. 'Of course your brain is going to default to what it knows best when you're hopped up on adrenaline. But it's just a matter of repetition. Look, I'll start. _Inmundus spiritus_ —’

'It sounds so much better when you say it,' Dean interrupted, his voice still muffled from underneath the pillow. 

'Because I know it,' you retorted, dryly. 'That tends to help. ' _spiritus et omnis_ —”

'Better than Sam though, too.' He sat up fast and the pillow went skidding to the floor. He was leaning back on his palms, arms extended behind him and his head turned to look right at you, and you were unnerved to find how much of your concentration was going towards not staring at the wide shoulders flexed back under his weight or the line of his hipbones — how could hipbones be muscular, for christ’s sake — pressing up from his beltless jeans. ‘Y/N, when you say it it sounds better than _anything_.’ 

You stared at him but he just threw his chin up a little and grinned crookedly at you, didn’t offer anything further, and you tried to force your mind away from the curve of his lips when he smirked and towards some half-reasoned calculation. That had seemed pretty clear, and _jesus_ the way he was still looking at you, not just your face but rolling his head a little and letting his gaze slide down you, that at least was real enough that you were suddenly acutely conscious of swollen flush of your cunt and the fact that it was just a few inches above the edge of your cut-off sweats. 

'Ah - oh-' you said at last, when it became clear he wasn't going to take the lead. 'Do you want to just work on some vocabulary? That's dull, but it won't take long and then we can at least tell Sam that—'

'Yeah,' he said at once, and turned to face you on the edge of the bed so that one leg was crossed in front of him and the other hung off the side. 'That sounds great, Y/N. But I was thinking, ah, that we could talk about a different kind of practice. I've been thinking that it's better for me to hear the words, ya know, I always did get stuff better hearing it anyway, so maybe I can ask you words and you can say 'em for me.'

You stared at him a little blankly, but agree. 

'That's fine, but really Dean, the differences aren't so much vocab as they are the different order of the adjectives—'

'I know, I know,' he said impatiently, 'are you ready?'

'Yes,' you retort, a little indignantly. You hadn't' studied Latin for seven years to not be prepared for a little quizzing from Dean Winchester. 'Go ahead, Einstein.'

He flashed a staggeringly naughty grin at you and moved suddenly across the bed so that he was sitting directly against you, his shins pressed against your kneecaps, and his hands were suddenly around your hips - not tight, but pressing heavy just over your hipbones. You gasped, and he grinned again and brushed a thumb across your lips. 

'Shhh. Alright, ready?' 

You weren’t entirely sure you could speak with Dean’s thick-knuckled fingers across your lips, let alone remember Latin vocabulary, but you nodded faintly. He wiggled closer up against your shins and began to rub his thumbs in soft circles just in front of your hipbones. A long rippling shudder ran down from your navel to the heat between your legs. Dean leaned in, close to your ear, close to your face, close enough that his stubble brushed your cheeks. 

'How do you say 'kiss'?' he breathed into your ear. 

You took a shallow breath. Your fingers were tangled nervously in front of you and you unfolded them very deliberately and put your hands softly up to his chest, barely brushed the fabric of his tshirt, but it was so thin from years of wear that you could feel his muscles twitch back in response. 

‘ _Basium_ ,’ you said, in a slightly strangled voice. ' _Da mihi basia, mille et mille ultra_.’

Dean smiled in a way that made your stomach turn over - less pure cockiness, now, a little tender – and then you were uncrossing your legs almost without thinking and he was pulling you firmly forward into his lap. Your arms slid easily up around his neck and just like that, sixty seconds and a line from an old Roman love poet later and you were straddling Dean Winchester, pressed up so close against him that you felt him hard and actually in the moment of lengthening through his jeans. He ran his hands and forearms up the back of your sweatshirt, and this brought his face so close to yours that you could feel his breath, quick and shallow. 

'What,' he said, rumbling in his chest, 'does that mean?' You swallowed hard and one hand moved hesitantly up to his hair. He hadn't had a haircut since you'd met him and it was long enough now to hold on to, spiky towards the front and matted at the back from where he's been lying on it during the game. When you spoke it was with your lips pressed against his temples. 

'Give to me a thousand kisses, and a million, and a million more.' 

You felt his forearms clench, pulling you hard against him; and then he yanked your sweatshirt over your head and pulled you to him, naked now except for your shorts, and kissed you softly and yet at the same time more fully than you’d ever been kissed in your life, one hand round the back of your neck and the other rough and gripping on the small of your back. It was long and open-mouthed and you gave yourself over to it, his lips pressed full against yours, not a rough kiss but shatteringly absolute, a kind of consummation in itself. Then just as suddenly he pulled back a little and held your face in both of his hands so that he was looking straight into your eyes. 

'One,' he said.

——-

You laugh and push him down beneath you and now he’s looking up at you, eyes crinkling, intoxicatingly gorgeous, and he’s got two fingers of each hand hooked in the top of your shorts. 

‘Move up a bit,’ he says, and you slide up and out of your shorts and then he undoes the fly on his jeans and you’re tugging them off. They stick over one knee but you get them off finally with a grunt of frustration, and then before you can get nervous he reaches out again with his muscled arms and pulls you back onto his lap and oh jesus. You rock down against his cock and feel him twitch and throb involuntarily, sliding easily up and down your slippery folds, and he kisses the underside of your jaw and down your throat.

‘Y/N,’ he says, gravelly and strained, ‘god you’re so hot – say more Latin for me baby.’ He rolls back onto the bed and takes you with him, flips you over as he rolls so that you’re underneath him and you can feel his cock hard and smearing precum across your lips and shit you’re wet and nothing in grad school ever prepared you to recall Latin under these conditions. But he was growling against your neck and rutting gently against you and holy shit –

‘ _Linge labram et oram meam_ ,’ you said, faintly, ‘lick my lips and my mouth.’

You were looking up at his face when you said it and saw the swell of desire that rolled across it, tightened his jaw and briefly closed his eyes. Then he dipped his head and bit gently again along your lower lip, but hungrily, now, and with a building urgency that wakened the first trembling down your thighs.

‘These lips?’ he said, barely above a breath into your mouth. ‘Or these ones?’ and shifted down your body till his knees hit the floor and buried his face between your legs. It was so fast and sudden that your knees instinctively flinched together but his hands slid from your calves to your thighs and held them open, down against the bedspread. You started making noises, then – not Latin now but a kind of low keening, and he nuzzled deeper into you and you could feel him smile against your cunt ( _holy fuck_ ). His tongue was rubbing back and forth across your clit, fast enough that you knew you wouldn’t last long, and you grabbed his hair and tried to buck up against him, but he grabbed your arms and pulled you down to the floor with him. You ended up on top, straddling him with a hand flat out on his chest and the other pulling just a little at his hair. You squirmed a little to get atop his cock and slid along him a few times, breathing heavily, your skin slick with sweat and fevered hunger because he was so beautiful beneath you, all muscled arms and shoulders and the wanton magnetism of his face, flush-blown lips and strong jaw and eyes bright and burning with desire. The pain of your want for him bloomed upwards from your cunt to your chest and you groaned and ground down against him, fumbled with one hand for his cock but he came up on his elbows and slid his teeth along your fingers, one by one, sucking them hard into his mouth. You caught his gaze and held it as you spoke.

‘ _Quae me perdant, oscula mille dedas_ ,’ you said, ‘ _nunc da mihi continuas fututiones_ ’.

His mouth fell a little open, two of yours fingers still inside it, and his eyes had gone glassy and dark. You waited him out, barely.

‘What’s – that – _fuuck_ Y/N, you’re killing me- what’sthatmean?’

You took a long shuddering breath and lifted your ass a bit, sank down around his cock and god it was good, a little curved forward and hard as fuck. When you spoke it was to the rhythm of you riding him, soft and slow at first, and his ragged breathing under you. His hands were on your hips again, thumbs stretched down right to the tendons under your thighs.

‘You – give – me – athousandlittlekisses,’ you moaned, not to be theatrical but because you were almost ready to come, could already feel the thick clustering heat beginning to stutter through your pelvis, ‘and – thosekisses – they destroy me – now giveme – endless – fuckings – _Dean – da mihi continuas fututiones_ –‘

You stop moving, gasping and chest heaving, trying to hold back your orgasm, and the look on his face takes away what little breath you have: shot with lust, yes, but not lost in it – on the contrary he seemed relentlessly present, glowing with a sort of effortless focus.

He sat up and spun on his ass so that his back was against the bed and you were facing each other, you still straddling his lap and his cock still inside you. You wiggled a little, and he sank a bit deeper at this angle and you groaned into his shoulder. One bicep curled around you, his hand resting on the back of your head and his fingers tangling in your hair. The other slid down to your ass, rough-knuckled and slick with sweat, and he started rocking his hips, pumping steadily up into you and withdrawing just as smoothly, and almost at once you were on the edge again. You must have started making noises, because he was shhhhing into your hair and curling himself tight and lithe and tensed around you and pumping, pumping, pumping.

‘imgonnacome’ you said, ‘dean can you – are you –‘

In response he raked the fingers of his other hand down your back and grabbed your ass with both hands, forced it hard and still against him. He kissed you again, soft and open-mouthed but deep, and you said against his tongue,

‘You know this one, Winchester. _Veni mecum_.’

‘Come with me.’ And he did.


End file.
